How Dean Lost the Mark of Cain
by fuchssusan
Summary: Dean's nearing death and reconversion to a demon; how will Sam and Castiel save him from turning again without allowing him to harm people?


How Dean Lost the Mark of Cain Page **19** of **19**

Prelude:

(This is the end of the episode "The Things We Left Behind")

Sam is in the passenger seat of the Impala; Castiel and Jimmy Novak's daughter, Claire are in the back. Castiel is attempting some measure of comfort, inept as he is, she accepts his comfort. Suddenly they hear the sounds of a struggle coming from the house they had just fled.

A blood-soaked Dean looking like he is in a deep state of shock is on his red knees in the middle of a blood-soaked and blood-spattered room. Five blood-covered bodies are splayed around him, some leaning against walls, some curled on one side – but all are undeniably dead. Too much blood, even for five people around the room guarantees that no one would have survived the carnage that created the bloody splashes around the room and draping the bodies and Dean. Point is – that's a LOT of blood and shows the slaughter that occurred right before Sam walks in. He stops shocked, stunned, and horrified at the scene before he shakily treads to Dean, calling Dean's name twice, trying to make sure Dean was alive and okay. Sam pauses and says "Hey" then drops to his knees in front of Dean. Holding Dean's head by both of his club-looking hands Sam's face was a war of its own, anger, hope, desperation, loathing, begging which came out in his shaky, determined voice; both gave away his belief that he already knew the answers to the questions he was putting to Dean. "Tell me . . . you _had_ to do this.

Dean's voice shook as he confessed, "I didn't have to. I didn't mean to."

"NO! Tell me . . . it was either them - or you!" Sam graveled voice shot back in Dean's face; not even that harsh vocalization could snap Dean out of his shock.

Dean's weary and resigned eyes traveled Sam's face before dropping and telling Sam what he could not say out loud.

Castiel stopped in the doorway after Sam had charged in and tread to Dean with Claire in his arms. Holding Claire, he observed the room, the state of the bodies, the amount of blood, the wounds the bodies endured – he knew the Mark of Cain had done its work again on and through Dean – as Cain wanted to kill and did kill, so would Dean.

Leading Claire out of the house, he left Sam and Dean in the middle of all that blood.

Later:

Sam comes out of the house with Dean who is still shocked and folds Dean into the front passenger's seat; Sam lumbers around, folds himself into the driver's seat and the Impala tears down the street, nearly fishtailing as it turns left and drives off.

A growl from clenched teeth sparks from the driver's seat: "We can't take Claire back to the bunker. Where else can she go?"

"Take me to the group home" wafted from the back seat, contrasted against Cass' harsh words.

"Claire NO - you were not happy there!" Cass' face showed fear, confusion, and consternation.

Claire turned to face Castiel. "Castiel listen – tonight showed me that I don't know what I thought I knew. The group home can help me so you don't have to worry. I'll be okay."

A heartbroken sigh comes from next to Claire; "Claire, are you really sure about this?"

"It'll be okay – I'll stay in the group home, work hard, and level up so I can have privileges. I'll graduate high school or alternative school or something. I'll be okay."

"She's right – we can't keep her at the bunker and there is no other place for her to go – she'll have to go to the group home to stay." Sam interjected his opinion since no one asked.

The Impala turns again to head to the group home with the air thickening inside. "Claire, okay. If you need help pray to me and I will come. I know I failed you before, but I will hear you pray and will come quickly. I will not leave you alone again unless I have no other choice."

"I know Castiel." A breath from Claire, then two slower before she settles back into her seat.

Claire and Castiel meet with the waiting group home manager – Castiel tells her the agreed upon story, that Claire left and found him. After a long talk Claire agreed that she needed to stay at the group home because his job took him all over and he did not feel comfortable having her change schools so frequently. He wanted to visit Claire from time to time if that would be okay. Castiel was informed to call the office first thing the next morning. Claire paused right before the doors and looked back at the concerned look on Castiel's face, softening as she took in that he really wanted to help her, then turned and went inside.

Castiel returned to the car, looked one last time at the front of the building to memorize where it was at and when he needed to return to check and entered the back of the Impala, alone. The Impala once again started up and began wending the way back home.

Story:

Sam and Castiel are in the reading room of the Men of Letters bunker, intently reading book after book, and pamphlet after pamphlet, diary after diary, note after note; they are looking for some way to rid Dean of the Mark of Cain. Dean is locked in a room with a bunk, sink, and toilet with one of the walls being bars with a door. Enough space is between the jail-cell looking bars with a door in the middle and the wall with a door that a person could come in and exchange items with whoever is behind the bars safely. A chair sits on the "free" side of the bars with a small square wood table, so that if someone wanted to observe or interact for a lengthy time with the prisoner it could be done safely. Dean is pacing the floor, his face a soup of misery, frustration, anger, resentment, helplessness, self-loathing and seething. Periodically Dean howls, yells, screams, grunts or snarls and lashes out, pulling on the bars, throwing whatever is handy, punching a wall or kicking a wall, a bar or anything that is near. Exhausted, he melts onto the bunk and curls up, shivering and holding the arm with the Mark of Cain on it, which is looking like blood poisoning – thin dull maroon lines radiate up his arm from the Mark, which is looking ragged and as if sores are developing on it. Dean's pallid and sweat-lined face shows strain and pain. His arms bulge as if he's fighting something. He is – the Mark of Cain.

Sam hears Dean's louder screams and yells and shifts uncomfortably in his wood chair. "Cas, is there nothing you can do to help Dean detox from the Mark until we can figure out how to remove it permanently?" Sam worriedly queries Castiel. Castiel does not look up but simply responds, "So far the only way I know to help Dean is to transfer the Mark to someone else. I checked with the other angels, my brothers and sisters, and all they could tell me is that the Mark can only be transferred to a firstborn, as Cain and Dean both were. He's suffering withdrawal, which can kill him. He can't truly die because of the Mark, and will return as a demon after each death." Cass's eyes pinch in as Dean makes a particularly piercing scream. After a brief pause, resumes reading yet again, more intently to show his growing desperation to help his friend.

Sam leaves to check on Dean, goes in to the room and sees Dean collapsed on the bunk. The younger brother studies the older, hoping to see some sign of improvement however small. Sam hollow-eyed, weary, and fraught runs his right hand through his hair, mussing it up yet again – it didn't look good to begin with – flips around and storms out of the room. Part way down the hall he stops, his sagging shoulders and dropped hands showing his growing resignation to the idea that he will either have to allow Dean to kill or die and come back as a demon.

Snarling himself he, like Dean earlier, begins to pound and kick the wall while yelling wordlessly. As his anger gives way to grief his assault on the wall slows and stops, finishing with him unable to support his weight and collapsing down the wall to the floor. He winds up laying there as grief pours from him and he winds up curled against the wall, much as Dean is curled. Once the emotional storm passes and Sam recovers, he pulls himself up, using the wall as support. Once up he staggers along a bit, then pauses, straightens himself out to a more or less standing position and reels down the hall to the bathroom, where he attempts to straighten himself up. Once he looks under control Sam goes back in to the reading room and once again intently scans the lore The Men of Letters contains.

As Sam begins to return to the reading room an alarm sounds, indicating someone is physically close to the bunker. Cass goes to the board and looks intently at the information presented. "Someone is outside the bunker's door. It looks like they are trying to come in." Castiel appeared curious, checked his angel blade, and treads smoothly to the door – looking through the peephole he sees a young beautiful woman dressed in a maid's uniform with dirt streaks, broken nails, hair akimbo and scratches all over. "It's a woman in a dirty maid's uniform." Cass declares to Sam, whose face quickly becomes a slideshow of emotion – concern, amusement, curiosity, wonder, a slight near smirk before settling on concern. Castiel firms up with a more determined look on his face and presses the intercom button.

"Who are you? What do you want? Why are you here?" The startled woman snapped her head up, fiercely looking at the peephole, then the intercom slightly above her head on the wall. With a pensive look on her face, she partially pulled in her bottom lip, bit it lightly. Her eyes moved back and forth in a thoughtful pattern, then whipped back up to the intercom.

"It is said that the Men of Letters would offer asylum to people like me. People . . . who left . . . His employment."

"His? Who is He? Crowley?" Sam grilled the woman through the intercom.

"Castiel knows. Please – I need sanctuary, asylum – just hide me from His people _please_."

Cass cocks his head and is at the door almost before Sam can see him move. As Cass unbolts the door and allows the woman inside Sam picks up a gun from the large center table, cocks it and aims at the door. Cass shows the woman to a chair after searching her quickly for weapons, splashing her with holy borax water and touching her with the silver letter opener kept on the large table. Sam comes up and bolts the door, looking quickly around first. Cass sits down on the opposite side of the table and leans onto the table with his forearms. Sam sits down at the end of the table between Cass and the woman. "Who are you?"

"My name . . . I never had a name. I was addressed as you, or idiot, or moron, or sassy, but never by any formal name." The woman looks earnestly at them both with some fear on her face. "I only remember living my whole life within those walls."

"Wait – who is . . . He?" Castiel posed the question – the look on his face shows that he already knows the answer, but is hoping the answer is not what he thinks it is.

"That's all He would let us call Him. He, Him, His, if we learned His name or addressed Him in any other way we were killed right then by whatever was handy."

Cass' face became stern as he understood that his fears are true, that He was still alive. "Where is He? Are you sure you were not followed?" The insistent questions rolled from Cass' tongue, showing his worry and concern.

"At His house – I can show you where and I don't think so. Staff has heard stories about the Winchesters and the angel Castiel when He and guests talk. If we spoke to each other about the stories . . ."

The woman's head came up slightly, her shoulders unfurling. As she sat up straighter, Castiel noticed a thin scar across the base of her neck, driving him from his seat, around the table and onto his knees before the woman. Reaching up, he raised her chin and moved her hair to look at the scar better. "What happened? How did you receive this scar?" Questions flowed from Cass as his fingers lightly touched the scars' ends and ran along the scar. Sam moves closer to see the scar and his eyes widen as he remembers the scar Cass had on his throat – this scar matches Cass'.

The woman gripped her hands in her lap, turning her knuckles white. Her body posture screams scared, afraid, hoping, and terrified. Sam noticed her white knuckles and the terror in her face and body, stands up and gently moves Cass back from the woman, giving her space and allowing her to have her own space. Cass looks up at Sam, confused and a little hurt. Sam nods towards her hands, which goes over Castiel's head completely. "Let's give her some space so she can deal and tell us what she needs."

Castiel still looks confused but sits back down in his chair, leaning as far forward toward the woman as possible without falling out of his chair. Sam moves back, takes Cass by the shoulders and slides him back slightly. Cass ignores Sam as he's moved but stares doggedly at the woman, pushing for answers with his eyes.

"I don't know about this scar – we all have one at the same spot. You are the best shot at stopping Him from hurting any more . . ." Here she looks confused, as if she lost the word to use. Trying over and over to say or gesture or write or _anything_ that would let them know, or even trigger her memory with no luck. Nothing she tries allows her to reveal the information to Castiel and Sam. The conditioning she had endured was too strong.

"Angels?" Dread, fear, hope, and the slightest resignation shades the question from Castiel, who has inched forward in his seat while the woman was speaking and is once again as far forward as he can be in his seat. He hesitantly takes the woman's hands in his gently watching her face as she shows fear then accepts his offer of comfort, wrapping his hands around hers with no pressure, no grasping, no pulling, merely offering comfort and support.

She tries to speak, finds herself unable to say "Yes". She tries to nod but cannot. She sighs, looks at Castiel imploringly, then Sam with pleading. "I can take you there. But only if we hurry – He'll move soon and then I can't help anymore. Please don't turn me out if that happens! He'll find me and won't let me die!" The increased tone and panic shows the woman's desperation as she fights for control, to remain in her chair, to not put her knees to the floor and curl up under the table as small as she possibly can.

Castiel continues holding her hands as gently as ever while Sam sits back in his chair, surprised at Castiel's outburst and slightly angered as he reads the fear in the woman and recognizes it as resulting from abuse. Sam pauses to clear his emotions, clears his throat, and takes a breath to speak and ask more questions.

"We'll need a few things, but we'll leave quickly." Castiel gently places the woman's hands in her lap as her face splashes gratitude over both Castiel and Sam. Cass stands; "Stay in that seat – there are things here that can hurt you. We'll be right back."

Back in the command room, near the weapons room, Sam puts his hands on the console and leans on his muscular arms, supporting his upper body while staring intently at a screen showing the reading room and the woman, who has her arms wrapped around herself and occasionally rocks in the chair slightly while looking down at the table or peeking at the room from a downcast head. "Cas, are you sure about this woman and what she's saying? I mean, we don't even know how she found the bunker. I mean, no one should even know how to find this place."

Cass had been fidgeting near the door, obviously wanting to go to the weapons room and pack for the job. After a long, intent stare at the screen, Sam turned and tread into the weapon room behind Castiel, who had all but leapt into action the split second Sam began moving from the screen. Castiel checked his angel blade and picked up some holy oil and moved toward the door to go back to the reading room. "Is that all you are taking Cass – what about a machete or . . . this Him whoever he is sounds like we'll need everything plus the kitchen sink."

"This battle is not ours. We go as true Men of Letters – preceptors and beholders of that which man does not understand. She and Dean will go with us."

Sam completely froze, his right foot just inches off the floor in a step, one hand holding onto the metal frame, the other just coming up to reach onto the shelf for an item. "Castiel, what do you mean? What is going on? What are we walking into?" Sam turned, almost glared at Castiel, remembering times when Castiel hadn't been as upfront as he could and _should_ have been with the brothers. "What do you mean take Dean with us? He is no shape to travel. He is just barely alive, and trying to bring him would kill him!"

"To answer your questions in order, I mean that we are going to meet Him, to chronicle what occurs, and it will not be by our hand, so do not take anything with you at all. What is going on is what I feared would happen after the angels fell and now must be remedied. We are walking into a situation that we have no power to stop, control, and can make no impact, but we will go as Men of Letters of old and observe what happens. Dean goes because he an elite hunter and trusted by the Men of Letters – you. He has a part to play as you and I and that woman does, and we will do our job to the best of our ability." Tersely spoken, Castiel's dried lips came back together and twitched before stilling.

"I don't understand – we are going to a job where people need help and are doing . . . _nothing_? That is not what we do, Cas, you know we help. We gank the monster (pain flits across Sam's eyes when he uses the word gank – one of his brother's favorite words), save the people, figure out what needs to be done and then do whatever it is." Helplessness drove the anger and frustration in Sam's voice.

"I will go with Dean and the woman if you cannot handle being a Men of Letters – but a Man of Letters needs to chronicle this."

"No you won't, Castiel. I am going, but I don't know enough to feel comfortable with this."

"Either you go as a Men of Letters and chronicle what is to come or you stay here. I cannot allow Hunter Sam to go to His home because you'll be killed before you cross the door's threshold. We have done for Dean as best as we can short of allowing him to kill to satisfy his bloodlust. There is nothing more we can do here and as Men of Letters we _need_ to chronicle this for future generations." The reproach and care was explicit in Castiel's retort.

Castiel's quick yet heavy tread as he headed off to Dean's room could be heard down the empty halls long after he had abandoned Sam in the weapons room. Sam lurked in the weapon's room, going from shelf to shelf, picking up then putting back weapon after weapon. He looks around, turns on his heel in a near 360 turn, looking at each section of the room before deciding to follow Castiel's information. He pauses after perusing the room once to consider all that has happened – goes to a shelf and picks up the notebook and pen lying on a shoulder high shelf-curious, there's a break in the dust where an object once stood. He tries to recall what was there, but then he too leaves and heads to Dean's room to check on Dean before they leave.

As Sam reaches the doorway to the room Dean is being kept in the swinging keys on the hook outside the door catch his eye. He pauses, looks at them and ponders why they might be swinging. Glancing at the solid lights he turns into the door frame.

Sam is astounded that Dean is sitting up on the bed, looking drawn but coherent. Castiel is standing up against the bars, following Dean's movements with his eyes as Dean stands precariously on his feet before tottering to the sink to splash water on his face and arms. As he dries his arms and face off from a nearby towel he aims a dry comment at Castiel: "Hey Cas, it took bars to get the idea of personal space." Dean smiles, walks a little steadier to the bars on the other side of the door and leans against them. Castiel flits to that side around Sam, who has approached the door bars and is scanning his brother's physique in wonderment and gratitude.

"How are you feeling, Dean?" Castiel does not touch the bars but stands just away from them, as if getting too close could burn him. Cass' body seems to thrum with energy and tension. His eyes travel Dean's form, looking for damage or something he could help make better. Castiel felt frustrated he could not do more for his friend and companion.

"Better – guess the Mark is trying to tell me to kill someone already. That was the worst withdrawal yet." Dean pauses, runs his hands through his voluminous hair and then leans against the wall, bracing with his right foot. "Man, something's gotta give. Can't we find a job, something I can kill? Sam, this could kill me." Another tense-laden pause, then, "I don't want to die yet again and become a demon – yet again. I'd rather find evil and kill it." Dean looked so frustrated, fearful, angry, hurt, and hopeful that Sam leaned on the bars and clasped his hands in front of him through the bars – a dangerous move now that Dean was under the control of the Mark and not always in control of his emotions or actions.

"We have a job, but Castiel is insistent that I go as Men of Letters to chronicle and nothing else. So you'll have to stay here." Sam says the last hoping to elicit more information from Castiel while attempting one more time to keep his brother safe from harm and keep others safe from his brother harming them. The firm yet dispirited tone of Sam's words sunk into Dean, who drove his fists backwards to the wall.

"Dean is coming with us." Castiel's soft yet resolute gritty voice wafted out into the room. He moved forward, gripped the bars, still intently following Dean with his eyes before lifting those intense Robin's egg blue eyes from Dean in the cage to Sam standing outside the cage. Looking Sam in his asparagus and dead grass eyes now showing alarm and concern, "Dean has to come with us. He'll control himself long enough to accomplish the job." Snatching the keys from the wall, Sam unlocked the door. However, in a small touch of insubordination, he did not open the cage – Dean was forced to lean on the heavy door bars to prize them open so he could join his brother and his angel friend.

"Thanks Sam." The dry undertone made the sincere overtone in Dean's voice ironic and at odds with Sam, who shrugged and clomped his way down the hall to the reading room. It is glaringly obvious that Sam disagrees with Castiel completely on this point but recognizes that Castiel is determined – and a determined Cass is not someone to go against. Dean pivoted his shoulders towards Castiel. "Thanks – I mean that. If I'm needed then I'll find a way to get through this mission and do what we need to do. Speaking of which, what _do_ we need to do?" The sincerity became firmer in his speech to Castiel.

"Be a Men of Letters – chronicle what happens. Dean, this is a backseat job, sorry." Your capacity is as one of the Elite Hunters that the Men of Letters rely on, but in this case your Hunter skills will not be utilized in the traditional sense. I cannot say more, but as you have trusted me in the past, trust me now."

"Castiel, if you say trust you, you have it. We've walked into situation with less intel than this and we'll do what needs to be done. If you think what needs to be done is sit back and watch, then we will watch. And thank you, for helping me."

"It's important that you come – this has to play out however it plays out. I cannot say more without influencing any of your actions." Dean walks more and more steadily out the door and to the reading room, following Sam's footsteps for once. The implication that this is an important moment in time hang heavy on Castiel, crumpling his shoulders slightly with the enormity of what is to come. It's almost more than he can bear, and he pauses, drops to his knees quickly and clasps his hands together. He prays to God. "God, I don't know if you even listen anymore, or that you even care – but you have saved these boys on two occasions. Save them now – I beg. Do not let come to pass what was once ordained. Let me be the last they lose from their lives."

Castiel stands and leaves the cage room, his shoulders still stooped and aged looking – they don't start to rise in the act of everything will be fine until he is nearly at the reading room. We see the back of Castiel as he strides into the reading room as he was before – no hint of his entreaty to God in his walk or actions.

Next Part

Dean would set Baby on fire before allowing Castiel to drive Baby as he willingly bought the pimpmobile, showing he has no absolutely clue about the world of cars or even good taste.

Sam insisted on driving, Dean demanded the passenger's side which left Castiel sitting behind Dean and the woman behind Sam. She pointed from her waist, hunched over in dread and fear. She knew what she was going back to and did not relish this trip at all.

After a long drive, they arrived at a mansion out in the countryside with a stone fence. They stopped at the gate – Sam pressed the intercom and waited for the voice to tell him what to do next. "Who are you and what do you want" a harsh and uncompromising voice barked. Sam blinked while he paused to gather himself and looked over at Castiel, raising an eyebrow as he did. With an impatient look directed at Sam Castiel leaned toward the intercom. "Sam is a Man of Letters, a preceptor; come to chronicle that which man does not know. I am Castiel, an angel. Dean is an Elite Hunter but is coming in the capacity of Assistant to the Men of Letters – I guarantee that he will cause no trouble but will only observe (he looks at Dean carefully as he says this last part, then Sam). We have brought your servant back to you and wish only to chronicle what we observe." Castiel leaned back from across Sam to stand nearest to the woman.

Sam just starts to slightly turn to the car but is stopped by Cass' voice – "Wait. Give them time." Sam glares at Cass with a slight amount of derision, but rearranges his face to show he will suspend his disbelief. He settles back to wait more. A while later ten men come to the gate and open it, then look at the group. The woman enters first and a man goes on each side of her and moves forward. Sam glances once more at Castiel, questioning and slightly accusatory before stepping in and being abreast by two men like the woman. Dean steps in next and is accorded the same treatment.

However, when Castiel steps in, four men surround him, one at each corner. He slumps, realizing that the men have some sort of angel proofing designed to weaken him and prevent him from leaving or using his angel skills. They start off toward the mansion, Castiel trudging and barely able to keep up.

Sam watches the men and the grounds carefully, mentally recording all that he sees to write later. Dean scuffs along with his head down, trying to conserve the energy Cass gave him to use during this arduous time. Castiel had told Dean very little, just enough for Dean to come. Dean knew they had a poor shot of both coming out of this situation, regardless of what Castiel told Sam.

The walk is long; giving Castiel a long time to contemplate what has brought him to this moment, and what he has to do next. He wished he had more time to tell Sam more but time was of the essence – to not act quickly was worse than not doing this at all.

The woman skittered between the two men guarding her, her head down and shaking as if she was scared. It wasn't until later that the brothers realized she had been laughing.

Inside the House:

The house was studied by all three men – Dean was unimpressed, Sam was intrigued, and Castiel dreaded the view. Entering in the foyer, the woman took her shoes off and motioned for Castiel to do the same. After hesitating, Castiel's shoes came off and were dropped in the foyer on the presumption that he would be able to put them back on. Sam also took his shoes off, but Dean left his shoes on. The men had already taken their shoes off and placed them in a hallway room; the men with Dean looked at each other then moved out into the hall and opened wood double doors at the right. The woman does not look back, does not even look around but scuttles/slinks into the room along to the left going into the room; stopping when she is just inside the door. The hall they passed through was lavishly done – extravagant rugs, small tables, lamps and sconces and pictures and carvings and sculptures. Great eye candy if the view is knew about those sorts of things. It's a shame that the boys did not have time to examine anything, although Sam tried to take mental pictures of everything – as much as for potential escape routes as recording for posterity, as Castiel had demanded.

Sam enters and at a gesture from one of the men, goes to the right going into the room as he was looking in. Dean follows Sam into the room, standing behind and to Sammy's right. Castiel enters last, with great hesitation – this is the point he has been dreading. Entering this room for him, now – it does not have good endings. He stopped just outside the threshold, highly reluctant to enter and submit to what he knew awaited him.

Castiel's fear must have some basis - examining the room may bring some enlightenment. The solid wood double doors are a dark oak with burnished copper handles and lock. The paneling in the room is also a deep brown color, but is solid wood as well. The floor is a hardwood oak covered by obvious-to-the-untrained-eye highly expensive rugs. The ceiling is a combination of ornate molding and old fashioned painted tin squares from which spout exquisitely worked gold chandelier with small diamond shards covering specialized bulbs. The walls have floral baskets spreading a heavy scent wisping through the room; various-sized paintings of never before seen of Monet and Rembrandt; wall sconces that were once used for gas; and a few small shelves with small bric-a-brac. Two expensive, old, well-tanned leather chairs that had been very well cleaned and cared for a loooong time frame the fireplace. Two suits of armor complete with swords that were shiny and sharp-looking adorned the walls between the walls holding the doors and the fireplace. In short, the room screamed money. You could not look at one inch of this room and not look at anything less expensive than a thousand dollars. Even the rock fireplace at the wall opposite the double doors was intricately done with extensive detail and carvings along the wood shelf atop the mantle, which holds some lovely carvings and sculptures. The money used just to create this room would likely keep a family of four at a five star hotel with unlimited pay per view and all the food they could eat for a year. If this room is that expensive, just think about the rest of the structure.

The room says appearances are critical, that attention to detail is a must; that everything has a place and every place has a thing. This is a room for the outside world and those that dwell in it. This room is designed to intimidate, to command respect, to show power and to promote a feeling of inferiority in the person visiting. Castiel has no clue about this room's purpose.

The men show Castiel to a seat near the right side of the fireplace and facing another chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. A small door is along the wall to the right of the double doors (facing them) leads off into the rest of the floor of this humble abode. Castiel sits in the assigned chair and looks down between his shoes – he is unable to keep up the act that everything is okay.

All four are searched quickly and extremely efficiently – nothing is found on any of them of import – all of Dean's usually box knives, knives, and other equipment were all taken from him when he was placed in the cell; he didn't have time to collect them when he left the bunker.

The small door opens – He steps out. He looks every bit like each pictured Him. Tailored suit with a small handkerchief impeccably folded in the left hand chest pocket draping a long, thin body – a lot like Death but with more forgettable features. The viewer's eye just slides off his face. An expensive silk ascot is around His neck. Slicked back hair had each hair precisely placed. Everything on His head was well proportioned and symmetrical – so noticeable that His looks were instantly forgotten the second anyone looked away. Sam and Dean look at Him in surprise – he looks like a completely harmless wealthy billionaire, someone that might stroll along in Niemen Marcus or take a Kopi Luwak while taking a small breakfast on the veranda one early balmy morning. He was completely unexpected.

As soon as he enters the woman stands along the same wall as the small door, head down, as small as she can possibly make herself, her arms down at her side – completely helpless and totally pathetic. He glances in her direction, a derisive sneer of power and ownership on his face. "Let her hear what she has done before taking her to be the warning to the rest. The rest of you stay outside – there is no threat here." He drawls this to the men that escorted all of them – they curtly nod once and station themselves outside the double doors after closing both doors – a normal practice they have done many upon many times before. After all, everyone heard about _Him,_ and knew better than to cause trouble. Nevertheless, these are _the_ Winchesters – and they really should have known better, especially after hearing all those lovely stories about them.

He sits down in the chair opposite Castiel, crosses his long legs, folds his hands into lap ever so primly and properly, and leans his head back – he's so tall his head sticks up from top of the back of the chair – clearly, he bought the furniture for looks and not for himself.

"Castiel, I am surprised you choose to come . . . _here_." A deep and calm voice exposed some surprise yet not surprised and ended the statement in a slight derogatory sneer. "After all, Heaven has been allowing this to happen since some angel flooded the world, God's creation. I thought I was God's _dirty little secret_, something to be ignored until Armageddon; well, or forever, since it looks like Armageddon will never happen for a while longer. Postponed but not ended entirely."

Dean's silky brown eyebrows slide up his forehead as he glances at Castiel, who refuses to look anywhere but at his shoes. Castiel's hands are fidgeting roughly with the armrests. "You disobeyed twice – once when it was deemed that you allowed dry spots of land to occur and again when you left. You fled Heaven and lost your grace because of it. It was found and dispersed for collective use by God." Castiel's flat monotone and resigned demeanor showed he knew what would happen when he came here.

Dean and Sam faces' show honest and genuine stun – they have heard about angel issues and punishments before, but finding out that The Great Flood was not as they had understood it was a great shock. He sat in his chair, his face contorting with sorrow and pain fed by hurt as Castiel recounted the story. "Having lost my grace, having it stolen from me when it was found and used by others – well, it's only fair that all of them should pay me back with their grace and their service. After all, it was not my mistake at all – just pinned on me. Wasn't it, Castiel?"

"Dumah . . ." Castiel said His name, hesitated, still looking down. Rage contorted His face and he faced Castiel. "That is no longer my name – you took it from me just as you took my post when _you_ came, promising me a break only to turn the rains off early and then not saying anything to me when I returned." His calm and steady voice was a dichotomy to his hands, which had clenched the armrests until his knuckles were white and throbbing – creaking could be heard from the wood, which sounded like it would splinter any second.

"I did what I was ordered to do by Uriel – he told me it was a test for you and I had to do my part." Castiel hesitated a long minute, looked into His' eyes finally with moist eyes surrounded by misery, pain and regret. "I did not find out until later that Uriel belonged to a faction that was trying to start the Apocalypse – they were tired of God not being there and wanted him to come back – they thought." Castiel stopped speaking the second Dumah's eyes left his own to watch the fireplace flames slow-wave. Dean and Sam were standing still and listening closely through all of this, their faces splashed with various emotions as they processed what was being said

The clock hands moved, moved again. "Whatever happened, it does not change that I have to live on borrowed grace, much as you are now since the end of The Great Flood. I find unwitting angels on earth in vessels who have not heard the stories – there are many, especially as the story was hushed up in the celestial skies. They are tortured until they release their vessel and become a miracle baby for one of the women here. Once they are born, their grace is extracted and they grow up and serve here until their vessel dies, whereupon they die too. It's a complicated way, but this ensures they have no memory of what was done or that they lost their grace. Growing up only knowing this, well – that's the worst part of the punishment. They die not even knowing what they were; what they had, what they enjoyed. They lose it all." "With the fall of the angels I have had a bumper crop of grace, all nicely stored and waiting for _my_ use. Some died in the fall and their grace was stored by the world until it could be recovered. Others . . ." He lifted a hand towards the rest of His house to indicate that the process He spoke of earlier was on-going. The superior sneer sat too comfortably on his face – He was used to having his way, to maintaining His status quo and running His little spot on the plant His way. It will continue that way for another two seconds before all hell breaks loose and he is stopped forever.

The only reason for two seconds was due to the woman. During the first second the woman reached back and snatched the sword from the suit of armor slightly behind her. That sword was kept sharpened to the point it could cut bone cleanly – after all, it had once more than a few angel blades, and had been forged specifically for Him by a blacksmith willing to not ask questions. It had been used for a sparse few extreme occasions, when "guests" had failed to maintain proper decorum, as he put it. The first second ended with the woman holding the sword in her hands and cocked back like a baseball player with a bat, but less choke on the handle.

The next second – well, let's face it, getting the drop on an angel? It's a rarity to happen – and it happened now. Dumah never expected this, never thought for even a split second that the woman would do anything than cower. After all, she knew what rules she had broken and the punishment – had seen punishment in her life, although not often because punishments were rare and fatal. She _knew_, like the two escapees a long time ago, that she would be caught and what would happen next – it was inevitable as taking the next breath. It was completely inconceivable that anyone disobeyed and escaped punishment. Every single servant who had disobeyed had been punished, from the time of The Great Flood to now, with torture and death. All those years, all that time and knowledge that her fate would end in only one way filled her mind.

She swung at the top of the chair, just above the top of the chair. By rights, she should have hit curly artwork and the blade either embeds in the woodwork or bounces back in the opposite direction. The chair had no curly woodwork – the top was straight. The blade slid along the top of the chair, which acted like a straight edge, guiding the blade at, then through Dumah's neck. The end of the second found the blade resting on the top of the other side of the chair, and a red line across Dumah's neck. It made a nice tableau with the woman having just killed her mortal terror, and she held the sword in place a moment in admiration.

The thinness of the blade meant the head stayed on top of the neck – for another second. However, Dumah had been nodding slightly as she struck. He was just bringing his chin back down when she struck. It was the luck of an angel that his head was in just the right spot. The blade passed through cleanly, without hitting his chin or the top of the chair. However, the downward motion meant that inertia came into play. His chin, already heading down, continued down and took the rest of the head with it, dumping onto the floor with a thick thud sound. It stopped at Dumah's feet. The angel Dumah was now dead, and the grace Dumah had stolen was erupting from his exposed throat in a growing stream of hot-looking white blue fount.

The woman stared at the Dumah's now exposed throat, from which a glowing, pale blue light had begun to stream. "Castiel, take it now! Put it to good use! Do the good Dumah would not!" She darted forward still holding the sword to take Castiel by his arm and pull him up and toward Dumah's body. The glowing was getting bigger – Castiel hesitated until she pushed him forward again. "Castiel, the angel whose grace that was is dead – it should go to where it can be best used. That is you. The angel died in pain and agony – don't let their suffering be for nothing. Use their gift for good. That is your charge and mission now." His brow furrowed; he gasped in another angel's essence. Castiel drank slowly and deeply of the essence, recharging his own internal battery and recovering a vitality he had not had since he had lost his own grace. As he drank the improvement was visible to Sam and Dean, who had never seen an angel imbibe another angel's grace before. It was astonishing how such a small action produced the overwhelming reaction in Castiel. Sam did as he had been told to do and was witness to all that Castiel did and what happened to him as it happened. He glowed blue for a moment from the grace before it settled in him and assimilated into his angel being, becoming one with who he was, is and will be. When he was finished, he staggered slightly, shook his head, and found a new crisis had developed.

The woman had taken the sword and placed it to Dean's tan and grizzled throat.

Part Two:

Sam was absolutely frozen just beside the suit of armor nearest the left door, facing the doors. Dumah's body was still in the chair, the head on the floor between the feet. Castiel stood in front of the body, having just finished taking the essence Dumah had stolen from another angel.

The difference was Dean and the woman. Castiel turned around and saw that the woman had the sword against Dean's neck – Dean was as frozen as Sam. He had seen the exact sharpness of the sword. Sam could not believe he was about to lose his brother.

"Castiel, do not try to stop me. You know I will do this." The woman's resolve showed in the steady hold on the sword, the blade showed not the smallest quiver from Dean's neck. Dean could not swallow without risking a serious cut – that is how close the blade was to his Adam's apple. "This has to happen."

Castiel raised his long arm in a wait gesture; turned his hand so the palm was facing slightly up in gesture of help and comfort. She looked at it briefly, rejected the comfort offered. "Castiel, stand beside Sam and do not move from that spot until you are told to move. Do you understand?" Castiel nearly leapt to Sam's side, "I understand. I will not move."

"Do not allow Sam to move either."

"I will hold him if I have to." Castiel's response once again sounded resigned yet resolute – Sam thought he was going insane but could have sworn hope had crept around the edges.

Sam started to turn toward Castiel, but stopped when Castiel placed his weathered hand on Sam's arm. "Chronicle this for the Men of Letters. Observe carefully."

The woman kept her left hand on the sword firmly. "Dean, roll up your right sleeve."

"Why?" Dean petulantly whined at the woman in a low gravelly voice. "Speak again and I'll have your head. You're to do as you're told and nothing else." The words slapped in Dean's ears, reddening his cheeks as if he had actually been slapped hard on each cheek. He felt like he had been scolded like a child and resented it.

"Dean. Do as she says and argue no further. It's time." The other low gravel voice gave no choices, no chance for discussion, and no hope to Dean. He had no choice but to do as she asked. He fought against his own unreasonable desire to yank away and keep the Mark of Cain as his own. It wasn't like he could die – ever.

Dean rolled his sleeve up, exposing the Mark of Cain. "You can't take this. It can only go to a First Born, to someone like me. A house maid doesn't have the ability to handle everything that goes with this Mark – it's too great a burden for someone like you." The small speech started off rough, tough and almost arrogant. It ended with an unspoken plea and an attempt to reason.

"Dean, you have to will the Mark – that is the only way it will transfer. And, yes, it will transfer to me. Just will it to go to me with all your will – you have enough to sass Death in the face so this should be no problem to you. Do it now." The sword does not waver. Dean does as he is told. Strain turns his face red, stands the cords out along his neck and arm and braces his legs.

The Mark of Cain transfers to the woman quickly, as if eager for a new home. Dean collapses, falls against the wall and slides down, his legs as if they suddenly lost all bones, Sam grabbing him and crouching down.

She shuddered, threw the blade across the room where it sticks in the wall. The men hear the blade and burst in but stop when they take in the scene. The woman is grabbing her arm just above the Mark, which is highly visible to the men as they enter. They go to their knees. It is time for her story to be told, and it deserves to be told.

"I was an angel once. I walked the lands and delighted in how they thought they had suddenly discovered an idea that angels had known when the world was a glint in God's eye. We were the prototypes to these beings – God had learned much when he made us and turned us loose. Then I was captured, brought here, tortured until I gave up my essence, and agreed to become a miracle child to some woman who had been an angel like me. As that poor woman's First Born I forgot about being an angel and learned His ways. I thought He was God with all that He could do and all He knew. He knew _everything_! He saw how I adored him; saw that I would do anything to please Him. So he began to teach me about the grace - how to steal it so the angels could use it to rescue themselves. Taught me how to shut off the angel radio permanently, which I performed on many angels. Taught me what to say and do to force angels to take on an earthly mantle of skin, to live and die as a person and forget who they were. As time went on, I figured out that Dumah had done that to me too. I began to remember."

"So you came to Castiel and cooked up this whole plan?" The incredulous tone, upraised eyebrows, flushed cheeks coloring the now post-transfer pallid skin showed Dean's suspicions and anger. "Cas, di-"

"Dean, let her speak. This is her story. Save your questions – they will all be answered." The commanding tone in Castiel's strong voice shut Dean up as effectively as superglue and duct tape – and it takes both to do it. Once again Dean felt scolded like a child, but this time it did not carry the sting as the earlier one that the woman forced on him did.

"As I remembered about Heaven and my past life, I knew this had to stop. Dumah had gone beyond just surviving. He has a massive stockpile of grace and yet continued his practice – if he could capture an angel, he would, even though he didn't need them anymore. He has become vengeful and greedy, Lucifer on earth." The woman took a deep breath; "I was Hashmal."

"Hashmal! We searched after you went missing and could not find you." Castiel was ecstatic to see his old friend and started toward Hashmal, who shook her head once, sadly. I cannot call myself the name God gave me anymore. I have harmed my own brethren – those who God created with me to help maintain all He wrought. Hashmal is dead."

Castiel shrunk as he heard the woman's words. The woman raised her arm, hand open in front and above her and waved it around slowly, stopped to the right. After a few seconds she clenched her hand into a fist and brought it down to below her waist. As she brought her arm down, Crowley appears in his usual expensive suit, looking traumatized; he had not chosen to move, so why the hell was he here? A quick glance is followed by a long and slow study of the room. He takes in the woman, who is not showing the Mark. His eyes light on Dean, "Squirrel" is said as he studies Dean, who has his right arm up– Crowley cannot see the Mark is gone. Sam next is glanced at, "Moose" and slid right off again. Castiel is eyed next, "The trio is in the wrong spots." A glance behind him to Dumah's body and his eyebrows rose in surprise and recognition – Crowley obviously _knew_ Dumah, and therefore knew what had been happening.

Castiel's eyes _blazed_ angel blue – he was pissed beyond description. "You _knew_ this was going on, Crowley!" He screamed at the King of Hell. He started toward Crowley to destroy him, only to be looking like he was doing isometrics against a glass wall. He raised his fists and beat on the unseen wall with all his strength, screaming – this is a whole new Cass none of them had seen. Even Crowley steps back and he is unperturbed by nearly anything. Dean brushes past Sam who is just locked up and gets between Castiel and the wall. "Cass, Cass – you can't do anything here. Stop, Dumah has been stopped and can't hurt any more angels. It's over. No more angels will be harmed. It's okay." Dean kept up this litany as his friend struggled against him, then collapsed against him before ripping away and moving towards the wood paneled wall. Dean quieted, turned around back to Crowley – "You are dead."

A small throat chuckle bubbles from the woman who exposes her arm and the Mark of Cain. "Dean. I'm not going to let you destroy my front man and bitch." Crowley's eyebrows disappear into his declining hair; "I'm no one's _bitch_, bitch."

"This Mark says you and all yours are mine now. I took the Mark from Dean; unlike Dean I know its powers and the order of things – Cain was the father of demons. I will take his place." If Crowley were human he'd be having a heart attack; his darkening plum face exposes his anger, indignation, and sheer pissed offedness.

She continued by sharply saying his name, "Crowley." Clenched jaw was all he could do – at the moment. Softer spoken, "Crowley, listen first, and then decide." Two breaths, then, "Crowley, I don't _want_ to take over! BUT, I WILL be Queen of Hell. Cain created the demons. He was the true King of Demons because the Mark made him so. When Dean took it he became the new King of Hell, although he didn't know it, and you kept that and a lot more from him, didn't you? Now I am Queen of Hell and you will do my bidding – Cain made your kind and I can undo you."

A sad, wispy sigh erupts from the woman. "I don't want to be the front man. I've served all of both of my lives and want to continue to do so – you can give that to me. You can be the front man! I will take the place you had chosen for Dean." Dean looks disgusted at Crowley, Sam looks amused with a told-you-so look, and Castiel looks saddened-he had stayed away from demon Dean because he couldn't help in his moribund condition. He could not save Dean and could not help himself so he had no choice.

"Think about this. You want the blade working for _you_. I want to atone for what I have done. This will work – no one outside of this room needs to know the real situation – just treat me right and give me what I need to feed the Mark. This can work if you allow it." An excited and cajoling tone wheedled Crowley to accept the treaty, to maintain the balance of power within Hell and help keep the world running more or less smoothly.

Crowley opened then shut his mouth and turned on his heel toward the doors to take this idea apart for any downsides to him. Everyone stood quietly and waited – it was pretty entertaining to watch Crowley be made to mentally crawl like an earthworm trying to escape water. "All right. I'll do the bloody deal. I will be your front man while you perform as executioner." A small cough from the woman; "Aaand, I will treat you equably and feed you the right souls for the Mark. But you will treat me well also."

The woman sighed, lowered her head, hands on hips. When she raised her head, her eyes were demon black. "Crowley, one more thing – I know _everything_ the Mark of Cain can and cannot do. Cross me and you will live forever in the ninth circle. Nothing escapes there ever and the second of respite only brings dread for what is next. Do not try (test) me, and I will not try (put to a trial) you."

Crowley got out a knife, spat on the ground in front of him, planted his left foot on the spittle, sliced his left hand and handed the knife to the woman. She replicated his movements and they shook hands long before breaking apart.

The woman set fire to Dumah's remains, cremated him in the chair he sat, blew the ashes up the chimney to disperse in the winds a few seconds work. She paused, her eyes turned normal, looked around and wondered. "I need a new name." She looked at the boys, Castiel who looked stricken, and Crowley. "Any of you have any suggestions?" The boys looked surprised, confused at each other and shrugged. Castiel had his head down. "Ah, Castiel – please do not hurt for me. A great evil to angels has been removed from the world – the price is worth that. I accept what has happened. I miss what we had together, but we cannot go back – we must only go forward. Those memories will help in the coming times."

Crowley spoke up and suggested a name. "Camilla." Everyone looked at him in disbelief. He faced the boys and Castiel, hands in pockets as he was want to do. "What?! It is the female version of Cain and means battle – a very fitting name, all things considered. It's a perfect name for the new you." He turned to the woman as he said the last sentence.

"It is fitting – Camilla it is." The woman smiled at Crowley, a cold smile with no mirth. Screams were suddenly heard from outside the double doors and throughout the house. Castiel looked horrified. "What are you doing Camilla?" He had no mental strength to say it any stronger than in a mild tone. He was so hurt and sad by all that happened and his strength was sapped by his emotional outburst earlier. Castiel shrunk to a heartbroken and devastated shell of an angel – the loss happening around him was painful as he heard every scream, felt every death of more and more angels. He groaned with the empathy but was helpless to do anything that feel it all.

"I'm cleaning up Dumah's mess. Castiel, they could not go back to angel – all of them were angels forced to be human and could not live in either world. It was a harsh kindness I did." She nearly crossed her eyes in concentration. "There. The grace is on shelves in the most protected section of the bunker – all of it. Castiel, I know you may want to release it, but I ask that you not waste it in remembrance of our time together." Dean's skeptical eyebrows shot up and he rolled his head and eyes at Castiel in a do-you-care-to-explain look. Sam looked amused, then fought it off his face to let curiosity lead, although it just barely hid the amusement and slight concern for his brother. Castiel looked miserable that slowly transformed into sadness then acceptance. "Goodbye Castiel – let us both hope that our paths never cross again. C'mon Crowley, it's time to go and set up shop."

Both she and Crowley disappear as does the wall that restrained Castiel, but the fireplace flame grows out of control. All three flee beyond the gate to watch the fire consume the entire property, stopping at the surrounding twelve foot tall fence of rock. They watch it all burn to a huge black mark. Castiel pauses, concentrates, and a garden appears where the house once stood. Dean clasps Castiel on the shoulder, gently, letting his friend know he is not alone. They turn away.

Finish

Back at the bunker, Dean and Castiel are pulling open a dummy computer bank in the control room. The bottles sit in angel blue velvet individual boxes. Each bottle has an angel's name on it. The shelves cannot be counted, sitting three across and unknown back. Castiel glides to one shelf and picks up the bottle gently and reverently, looks at the name and smiles sadly. I knew this one – a good Cupid. Really loved his job and would have fun with it whenever possible." Dean looked at the name, Gail. He stands quietly with his friend and listens and waits.

Castiel returns the bottle to its place, then turns and closes it up quietly after Dean leaves the room. They return to the reading room where Sam is writing. Castiel and Dean both sit down at the table. Castiel leans back. "You know, God had punished Dumah in one other way. The words "dumb" and "dumbass" come from Dumah's name. God did that as a reminder to us that even we can make stupid moves. I had forgot that lesson"

Dean smiles a caustic smile – Sam has his surprise, then understanding face on. It turns out he has been writing the chronicle of what just happens. He blows gently on the ink to dry it, then picks the leather-bound tome up and puts it back at the end of a row of tomes, then sets back down. "I did as you asked Castiel. I acted in the capacity of A Men of Letters and chronicled what I had observed." Castiel nods, "Thank you". They all sit quietly, each pondering what they had seen today. "You could not have helped any of them -you know that," Dean lets his quiet, comforting voice slide across the table into Castiel's ear. "I can put their grace to good use, to honor them and Hamash's memories. I can do right, with both of yours help." Castiel looked over at Dean with the corners of his now moist lips upturned slightly – not in a smile, but to show that he thought well of Dean. The upturn changed into a sincere smile at Dean, then melted slightly into a more formal smile for Sam. They sat at the table quietly for a time and reflected on friendship. They thought about love and the forms it can take and how it can impact a life. They enjoyed each other's company and relaxed.

Epilogue:

Camilla was setting up shop in Hell, putting knives in drawers, labeling drawers and cupboards, and training an assistant where everything was and what it was. The room had dark walls, floors and ceiling yet was brightly lit. A rounded cascading lava pit was in one corner all sorts of torture items from all ages were organized about the room. Camilla had an assistant and was explaining tools, what they were and what they did as they took them out of boxes and put them away. It was obvious that Camilla liked order and organization; expected it of those she worked with daily. She smiles, pats the assistant on the shoulder and turns to the door as someone strolls in.

Crowley is in front of two other demons holding a third demon. "I've got your first demon soul right here." Black-eyed Camilla smiles and turns. She has a small, thin hook in her hand.


End file.
